For Ferelden
by rayquazing
Summary: Mahariel has a choice to make, a choice far greater than herself.


Yarné sat at the edge of camp, behind Bodahn's cart. It was well past midnight and the camp was silent save for the occasional snore. The tips of her ears were cold, and the air carried a bite that stung her cheeks. She pressed the heel of her hand into her temple and ground her teeth. She hadn't asked for any of this; being torn from her clan, becoming a Grey Warden at the beginning of a blight, having to unite Ferelden in the face of civil war, and then of course there was Alistair. The royal bastard had also proven to be a royal pain in the ass, and was the very reason she was avoiding the tent they shared, despite the respite from the cold it promised. She should never have perused him, what future could an elf possibly have with a human? She would bring him nothing but ridicule and disgrace. Any children she might bear (if the taint would allow) would be vial half breeds, excepted by neither man nor elf. It had already seemed impossible for them to find happiness, but there had always been the tiniest glimmer of hope burning deep within her, a spark she knew Alistair shared; but now, _now_ there was truly no way.

She had done as Teagan had bid, and obtained a pinch of Andraste's ashes; she had fought through an entire cult to get them, nearly died fighting a fucking dragon. Who was she kidding she hadn't done it for Teagan, or Isolde, not even for Ferelden, it had all been for Alistair, the idiot really had buried himself deep within her. After the Arl had awoken and the situation had been explained he had declared that Alistair was to take his father's throne, his claim was the strongest after all. Yarné had felt like she might vomit at that very moment, though Alistair, despite his mild complaints didn't seem to realize the weight this decision carried; not for the blight or the country, but for him and her. The more she thought about it the more it seemed to be the only option, she had to make Alistair king, and no elf could be a queen, not of Ferelden anyhow. She would be forced to give him up when he was all she had left, and it was killing her.

"Yarné," a soft kind voice called from behind her, drawing her away from her poisonous thoughts, "Yarné, is that you?"

The Grey Warden turned her head to look past the worn wood of the merchant cart; Wynne was walking cautiously toward her.

"Yes. I'm sorry Wynne, did I wake you?" She hadn't realized she had been making noise.

"No need to apologize, I was just off taking care of business when I heard you sigh. You should go back to your tent; you'll catch your death out here. Even the Dalish must catch colds, no?"

Wynne knew something was wrong, Wynne always knew when something was wrong. Yarné wondered if it was a gift of old age or simply something the mage had been born with.

"I'm fine Wynne," she caught the sharpness in her voice and immediately rebutted, "I-I mean I can't."

The mage sighed and sat down beside her, leaning against the cart, "Because Alistair is there? Don't look so shocked, you've been avoiding him since we left Redcliffe, I'm quite surprised he hasn't already come to you himself. He looks at you with such longing when your back is turned."

"I'm going to have to give him up, he needs to become king. He'll marry some noble, maybe even Anora, and he'll never forgive me," Yarné choked back a sob, "there's no other way, Wynne, and I have to do what's best for Ferelden…" She wiped hastily at the wetness on her cheeks, "I love him…I always will, but I have to let him go. Oh Gods forgive me I have to let him go, Fen'Harel take me I _have_ to."

Wynne placed a gentle hand on Yarné's back, and when the younger woman slumped against her shoulder, she held her while she cried. The mage gently pulled the elf's short black hair away from her face, "Hush now, I have lived for a long time, some would say too long, and though it feels as though this is the end it is not. I know this isn't going to be very much help but, sometimes it is okay to be selfish. Ferelden will survive without a Theirin on the throne, and Anora has proven herself to be a good queen over the past five years. I know you fear betrayal, but it is still an option to consider."

"Thank you, Wynne," the elf swiped at her cheeks again, "I know this may sound rude but could I please have a moment alone? I-I need to think."

Wynne chuckled, "Not rude at all, my dear," she pushed herself to her feet and walked slowly away, back to the warmth of her and Leliana's tent, "Not rude at all."

Yarné sat, her head aching, and her stomach churning, but the spark of hope was back. Maybe Wynne was right, maybe Anora could be trusted, maybe she could keep Alistair; and yet doubt still loomed over her, its shadow darkening her thoughts. Anora would likely have them exiled the moment she reclaimed her throne, because not only had they 'killed' her husband they were also going to kill her father. No matter what the queen would say to them, Yarné knew that Loghain Mac Tir had to die. He had done far too much to warrant any other punishment. She let her head fall back into her hands. This was too much, and she was _so_ tired.

She climbed shakily to her feet, and pushed her short black hair out of her face, away from her vallaslin, and tied it back into its usual place. She wanted to be with her love, despite the anxiety bubbling in her stomach and poisoning her mind. She needed to be with him; he calmed her.

The air inside the tent was warm and welcoming and it smelled overwhelmingly of _him_ , smoke, leather, and sweat, _Alistair_. He lay facing away from her one arm thrown out as if he were embracing some unseen person.

"Ma'vhenan," she whispered as fell to her knees beside him.

He was so handsome, with his short blonde hair and that ghost of a beard shadowing his chin. His musculature was impressive, yet not overbearing. Yarné groaned into her hands, trying, and failing, to suppress the heat coiling in her abdomen.

"You know," he started, scaring her back to her feet, "It's amazing what one hears when taking a late night piss."

"I- you're awake?"

"Yes love and I heard your conversation with Wynne," He rolled to face her, his golden eyes caught somewhere between bitter anger and wild worry.

"I apologize, I had not intended for you to hear that, I did not mean to trouble you," she slipped into what Morrigan lovingly referred to as her Warden mode, icy and distant, cold and diplomatic.

"Don't," He sat up and pulled her down onto the blanket next to him, his eyes wild his jaw clenched "don't start that again, you've been doing that for three days now. You can't keep avoiding this, avoiding _me_."

She looked away from him, unable to face him, "I-I can't do this anymore Alistair, we can't keep doing this. We have a duty to Ferelden and this…this _tryst_ is keeping us both from that duty."

His jaw fell open and his eyes softened, "You don't mean that. You were just telling Wynne how you _loved_ me; you don't want this to end."

She turned towards him staring into him with eyes that cut like daggers, "I don't get to have what I want because I am part of something much larger than myself. Gods Alistair why can't you see that? You are to be king and I am to die along with the Arch-demon, I can't be your queen, I can't give you children, I can do nothing for you, I can give you nothing. Please don't make this any harder for me; please I'm begging you by the Gods please let me go."

Then he was kissing her hard and angry and wet; _he's crying_ she realized. Her rigidity quickly melted and she responded kissing him back, her tongue sweeping across his chapped lips and pushing into his mouth. Oh Gods how she loved him, more than anything. He pressed her hard onto the ground as he groped at the buckles on her armor. With deft fingers she helped him, and then shrugged the mail off raising her arms to wrap around his neck, her fingers running through his hair. His mouth moved to her neck and she gasped as he nipped playfully at her pulse point. He worked down towards her breasts but she quickly yanked him back to her mouth, sighing into him.

They broke away briefly; just long enough for her to gasp, "Ma'vhenan," before his lips were on her again.

Afterwards as they lay wound around each other, sweaty and panting and basking in the afterglow. Her fingers lazily traced the panels of his abdomen and chest and he kissed her hair gently.

"I can't make Anora queen…" she trailed off, her hand dropping back to her side.

He chuckled against her hair, "Way to kill the moment, love. I know you can't. But I won't let you go, not so easily, there has to be another option, there always is. I love you…a-and I can't imagine being with anyone else."

"Ma'vhenan," she pulled him down into a kiss.

"If I am your heart then you are mine, Yarné," he pulled her flush against his chest, "Promise me that, no matter what happens, we'll stay together."

"Alistair—"

"Promise me!" He pulled away so he could look into her eyes.

"I promise," she paused thoughtfully, "We will stay together. I'm not sure how, but we will find a way."

"Thank you," he whispered, and then kissed her again, "Now, you should get some sleep, love. We've a long week ahead of us."

She nuzzled into his chest, taking comfort in the contact. Drifting easily into a well deserved sleep.


End file.
